Advent, day eleven.
We know the story. Simple shepherds on the hillside. An explosion of light. Polyphonic glories. Rough men, enfolded as worthy of royal appointment. How they set off on their own journey of discovery.
Of course, the Bible is full of sheep and shepherds. The Passover lamb. David in the fields with his sling shot. Psalm 23 and ‘the Lord is my shepherd, so I’ll not want…’
Jesus used the image a lot too. There is that bit in John 10 were he talks about the Good Shepherd. Perhaps the most famous passage is this one though, from Luke 15 (here from the Message version);
1-3 By this time a lot of men and women of doubtful reputation were hanging around Jesus, listening intently. The Pharisees and religion scholars were not pleased, not at all pleased. They growled, “He takes in sinners and eats meals with them, treating them like old friends.” Their grumbling triggered this story.
4-7 “Suppose one of you had a hundred sheep and lost one. Wouldn’t you leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the lost one until you found it? When found, you can be sure you would put it across your shoulders, rejoicing, and when you got home call in your friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Celebrate with me! I’ve found my lost sheep!’ Count on it—there’s more joy in heaven over one sinner’s rescued life than over ninety-nine good people in no need of rescue.
I don’t mean to get hung up on sin and what being saved might mean other than reminding us that this is a parable, a story to make us think, to trip us up a little in our easy comfort.
What I want to take us back to is this.
Each sheep is loved.
But each sheep returns to the flock.
We are one, but we are part of each other.
The good shepherd knows this. She gathers us together.
Shepherd
Gathered
Like the late autumn crop
Like loose threads in a sock
Like post box gets mail
Like the children of Israel
Like birds overheard
Folk at a deathbed
Chicks under a wing
A choir come to sing
Like stories not told
Like the sheep in this fold
Gathered
Like wet fallen leaves
Like fields full of sheaves
In the arms of a mother
In the life of my lover
Crowd comes to band
Like a beach full of sand
Like hook and like eye
Like clouds in clear sky
Like boats back from sea
Like you gather me
Gathered
Like slow recollection
Like mutual affection
Like pond-bottom slime
Around the scene of a crime
Bright hearths in December
Like football club members
Like the hungry to feast
Around the holy high priest
Honey bees to a hive
Refugees who survived
Gathered
Like dry clothes from a line
Like grapes to make wine
Like fish in a net
Like old age regret
Like friends in a pub
Like the weft of a rug
Like cards from the table
Like telephone cables
Like hairs in a comb
Like prodigals now back home
this fragile tent 